


Banal Nadas

by Vennn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous Inquisitor, Ambiguous Lavellan, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inquisitor thinks about Death and Mortality a lot, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vennn/pseuds/Vennn
Summary: The Inquisitor doesn't tell anyone. About the pain, the anchor, the glow.And then Trespasser happens.





	1. Before

He didn’t tell Bull. Or Varric, or Sera, or Leliana. Anyone, from his advisors, to his companions. Cole had to know, though. He’d mutter about it sometimes, about the stinging pain, about waking up gasping for breath. It’d only came close once, when they were out in the Emerald Graves, but he’d thrown a dagger into a giant’s leg as soon as he realised what Cole was talking about, and used the fight as an interruption, yelling for everyone to get ready.  
He especially didn’t tell Dorian.

How could he? How could he deal with them all knowing. He could hardly deal with the sympathetic, pitying looks when Leliana had told him his clan was gone. Not again. He would do anything not to have Dorian look at him like that, with those apologetic eyes, as if he had personally killed them all. Dorian was never good at comforting him like that; he didn’t blame him, of course. Tevinter was a harsh place, not made for comforting, and he knew that Dorian did all that he could to try and help. But Dorian was always better at distracting him from his pain than facing it, and it builds up. Up and up, until it explodes.  
At least, that’s what Istimaethoriel would tell him. Tell him he had to work his anger, his sadness, all negative emotions out. That crying wasn’t weakness, it was a necessity, so you could be stronger.  
Not that it matters. She’d died with the rest, slaughtered by Wycome soldiers. She was so good, so genuinely kind, always telling him that humans weren’t completely bad, and they’d killed her for it.  
He’d nearly left, that night. Snuck out the window, or jumped, anything. Anything to not have to deal with the reality, that he was alone. He was it. The last of Clan Lavellan.  
He remembered, briefly, how excited he’d been, telling Josephine about his friends, that one day in Haven. About Bellanaris, with her messy brown hair, and her sword twice the size of her, about Revas, and how he could calm a halla with a look, about Elgar, and Melava, and Vunin, and Sulahn.  
But they were all dead. Gone. Dust in the wind.  
He’d join them soon enough.

The only one who knew about the pain was Solas. On nights when he woke up, shivering, the mark sparking, burning his very essence, he’d creep out of bed, drag himself down the stairs and to the archives where Solas was. He had to do it so slowly, so carefully, as not to wake Dorian; he couldn’t bear the thought of Dorian waking up during that, seeing his terrified eyes, and watching the mark stretch further up his arm and closer to his heart.  
He knew, somehow, that it’d kill him. Eventually. He’d die in agony, the mark consuming him whole like so many beasts had nearly done. He almost wanted it over, to end it himself, to avoid the pain, but he kept stretching, reaching for a little bit more. A little more time.  
When he’d get there, to where Solas was inevitably lurking, nose deep in some old Elvhen book, or painting the wall in the dead of night, he’d just have to look at Solas for him to know. Solas would walk over to the bench, and offer his hand, and Lavellan would drag himself just a little further, just a little more, and place the mark in Solas’ arm.  
Solas knew some sort of old Elvhen magic, he said, learned from his dreams, similar to most of his knowledge. He knew how to quell the pain, even for a little bit, and just a second without the agonising electric in his veins always felt like pure bliss. He’d fallen asleep there, multiple times, his head in Solas’ lap, while Solas held his arm, giving him just the smallest bit of sanctuary. Solas would always wake him, early, so he could go back to Dorian, and keep up his charade.  
Solas understood.

But then he was gone. Corypheus defeated, the mark now useless. It seemed so hopeless, now. His sanctuary was gone, as was the only person who understood. Dorian left for Tevinter not long after, promising to return, and write letters. Lavellan didn’t expect to see him, when he got back. Dorian called him a fool for holding onto him so long, saying he’d be back before he even knew it. He knew he’d be dead by then.  
He resented Dorian, a little, for leaving him to die alone. He knew, logically, it wasn’t his fault, and he loved Dorian, truly. But he couldn’t help it. Negative emotions, he supposed. He’d rather it was like this, though. Better for Dorian to not… not wake up one day to find himself lying next to his Amatus’ corpse.  
And Tevinter was so important to Dorian. How could he do that, force Dorian to choose between staying for him, and the Tevinter reformation he talked so much about? He thought about how Dorian’s face would light up whenever he asked about it, before he’d start to ramble on about politics, and strategies, and how the Tevene hierarchy worked. Lavellan never truly understood it all - it was incredibly complex, Dorian admitted - but he tried his best to be supportive, and make sure Dorian knew he was listening.  
No, it was better this way. Dorian was completing his life goal. It was what he’d always wanted. It was important. 

The Inquisition was still busy, however. Everyone drifted off, Leliana with Divine business, Vivienne to assist with the new Circles, Varric to Kirkwall. Cassandra went to rebuild the Seekers, better than ever, and Blackwall joined the Wardens. It felt… it felt right. Right for them to go, so they wouldn’t have to watch him die.  
Sera and Bull, though, refused to leave him. He urged Bull to take other jobs, and Sera to go help other people, but Bull would just ruffle his hair and laugh that laugh, and Sera would call him stupid, and say they were family. It hurt more, those days. Cole stayed too, saying as long as the Inquisition helped, he’d stay with them.  
Josephine and Cullen remained. He was never, truly, close to either, not like with Bull, or Sera, or… Or Dorian. Josephine always looked at him with those sad eyes, though. She had since the day his Clan died. Cullen remained as firm as ever. Lavellan had never really liked the man, what with the past Templar experience. He’d lost friends to Templars. Cullen still agreed with that. It was to be expected that they wouldn’t be close.

The pain got worse. It had always been getting worse, but now he could barely hold his left blade without it shaking. He couldn’t make a fist, either. And the mark… He’d watch it, sometimes, alone in his bed, whimpering to himself. Watch it ebb and flow, like the tide, infecting his veins. They glowed green, now, like the mark was in his very blood. His dreams felt it too.  
He dreamed of deteriorating, of decaying, becoming just another corpse on the road. He dreamt of green, of the fade, and the demons. He dreamt of Dorian, of what he’d think, how he’d curse his name when he found out. Of Bull, and Sera, and Cole, and what they’d do if they went to wake him up in his tent and found him dead.  
He’d tried, when Solas had first left, to research, find anything at all. He’d read every book on ancient Elvhen artifacts he could find, to see if there was something, anything, he could do to quell the pain.  
Nothing.

He barely slept, now. What little sleep he could get was never more than two or three hours, and it was adding up. So overwhelmed, from the sleep deprivation, and the mark, that he took an arrow through the shoulder and didn’t truly notice. It felt like nothing compared to the mark.  
It felt good, though. To scream. He could justify it, then, screaming into the sky. Sera called him a wimp, saying he’d taken worse (which he had), but Bull just told her to be quiet when he yanked it out. 

He thought, sometimes, when he was kneeling on the stone floor of his Skyhold bedroom, hugging his marked arm to his chest and screaming into the night, about something he’d heard Solas say. ‘Banal nadas.’ He’d never been good at Elvhen, not like the others. He knew the keywords. He’d asked Solas, one night, to teach him. Solas had chuckled, and said he didn’t truly know enough to teach, but he’d always felt like that was a lie. Solas spoke Elvhen like Dorian spoke Tevene, like Bull spoke Qunlat.  
He’d found the translation, by candlelight in his room, on his search through Elvhen artifacts. It was carved onto a dagger. ‘Nothing is inevitable’.  
It was rather fitting.

Dorian kept his word. He sent letters, once every month. They always smelled of him, and his prissy handwriting, that Lavellan used to make fun of. He’d tried, tried to write one back, but he could never think of what to say. Everything he wanted to say, he couldn’t. Dorian would worry, he’d come back, and that couldn’t happen, no matter how much Lavellan wanted him.  
He wouldn’t do that to Dorian.

It became a thing, to be surprised to wake up. The pain stopped getting worse, at least for a bit, levelling off into a standard. He lived another year. Every day felt the same, every day just on the edge of death. Sera made jokes that he wasn’t striking right, and he’d laugh, but it always felt hollow. Bull asked if he missed Dorian, probably assuming that’s why he was so… unemotive. “Down”, as Bull put it. “Whiny”, as Sera put it. It was easier to say yes.  
That didn’t make it a lie.

He thought about Dorian. So much. Dorian, proving an expert distraction even when he wasn’t present, made him not think about the mark, about death, about everything. 

On the nights when he was out of Skyhold, he’d leave. Wait until everyone was asleep, and sneak from the camp. He’d go far, far enough that no one would wander into him on a nightly walk, and climb the tallest tree he could. He’d done that so many times in the forest with his Clan, he could do it autonomously, without even thinking. There were a few times he’d completely lost track of time, watching the mark, and the sky, and heard Bull roaring his name through the trees. He never had a good enough excuse to convince Bull.  
Cole kept trying, trying to tell them. They’d be out, clearing up the leftovers of the Red Templars, when Cole would start on about his thoughts. About how they couldn’t know, they’d worry too much, about the pain, oh Creators, the pain, fenedhis, they couldn’t know. Lavellan knew they weren’t stupid - Bull was ex-Ben Hassrath, for Creators sake, he had to know - but he hoped, hoped so hard he hoped to the Maker, they’d never ask him about it.

Sometimes, in his nightly torment, Cole would come to him. He’d stay with him, his presence comforting. It helped, to have someone there, he thought. Or maybe Cole was using what little spirit powers he still had, and was taking on some of his pain, or something. He hadn’t really been listening when Solas explained that.  
He wished he’d listened to Solas more. He wished Solas was here. And Dorian. 

Mostly Dorian.

He’d trade whatever time he had left to feel himself in Dorian’s arms one last time. Just once. It’d be enough.  
Then, the Exalted Council was called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know if anyone cares about this game anymore but I angst about Trespasser like 5 times a week.
> 
> Please validate me.  
> Also I can't spell please tell me if I fucked it up.  
> My formatting kind of got lost on the conversion from google docs to AO3 so :( sorry if it's hard to read... I'll work on that. More enters.  
> This is my first fic so please give me feedback... i want to be Good.


	2. Trespasser

Sera leaves a week before the Exalted Council. She has Red Jenny business in Denerim, and leaves with the promise to meet them in Halamshiral in time for the council. She hugs him when she leaves, which feels weird. They barely ever have physical contact, and the hug lasts a few seconds. She takes nothing he offers her except a horse, and a dagger. She only takes the horse because it’ll get her there faster, and the dagger because he slipped it onto her belt when she wasn’t looking.  
Sera’s good with her bow, but she’s terrible in an up-close fight. The dagger will help. 

Bull and Cole stay, and help make preparations. There’s not many to be made, really. Josephine deals with almost everything, as always, and Cullen’s in charge of the troops, not him. He doesn’t really see Cole, but he spends the majority of the day with Bull and the chargers. They all take turns telling stories, but he can’t help feeling weird every time Krem tells a story about Tevinter.  
Dorian didn’t send him a letter that month. 

He’s not worried about it. He’s not.

He is, however, worried about the council. Leliana called it, to save Josephine having to argue with both Orlais and Ferelden through message. It will decide the fate of the entire Inquisition. It’s hard not to be nervous.  
They say the Inquisition is a military organisation waiting to strike, and it’s stronger than both Orlais and Ferelden individually. They only way they can take down the Inquisition is politically, so it looks like that’s what they’re doing.  
Lavellan isn’t sure, really. The council has a point; they’re a powerful, military force, sitting on their borders. They have a right to feel threatened. The Inquisition is just sort of… hanging about, too. Since Corypheus was defeated, they have no true goal, except, as Cassandra had put it, “restoring peace to Thedas”. But was there ever peace to begin with?  
He thinks of the elves in the alienages, and of Briala and Celene, and the Orlesian purge, and Chevalier hunting games, and knows there wasn’t. Not for elves.

He thinks about elves a lot, now. About why Dorian wouldn’t let him go to Tevinter with him, about why Sera refuses to even acknowledge herself as an elf, about Solas’ distaste for the Dalish.  
It feels like everyone is against him. Whether for being an elf, being the Inquisitor, or just being Lavellan. He used to think about it, when Dorian first told him he was going to Tevinter, and he didn’t have to worry about… everything else. He considered just stowing away on Dorian’s boat, defying his wishes, and coming to protect him. A part of him always knew, eventually someone would see his vallaslin, or his ears, or his eyes, or just tell from his height, and he’d be in chains faster than anyone could say ‘elf’. He doesn’t know if Dorian would be able to help him then.  
He kind of hates it. Being an elf, that is. If he wasn’t an elf, he could go with Dorian. If he wasn’t an elf, maybe he wouldn’t have been at the conclave, and maybe he wouldn’t have been Inquisitor. Maybe he could have lived a nice life, somewhere, with a nice guy.  
It wouldn’t have been Dorian though. He’s not sure he’d give up Dorian for that.

Sera and Solas though… They’re so strange. Solas makes sense, at least, being a strange non-Dalish mage from the woods. His hatred of the Dalish makes less sense though. Sera, too, with her hatred of all things elvhen. He got so excited when he first met her, an elf standing up to rich nobles, like a hero from a story, like Alidda of Halamshiral herself. She spat that back in his face immediately, declaring him “too elfy” based on his vallaslin. She’d warmed up to him, over time, after he stopped trying to talk to her about elf things.  
After Sera rejected it, he went to Solas, who said something about not thinking of elves as his people. They’d both stare at him weirdly whenever he swore in elvhen, or cursed to the Creators. It made him feel hopeless, surrounded by humans, and elves who wanted nothing to do with him. He missed his clan.  
Dorian was the only person who ever made him feel… not alone. He felt safe with Dorian, understood, on a level no one else could match. Solas might help his mark, and Sera might be a good friend, but Dorian… Dorian was always more.

The night before they leave, Lavellan sits up all night on his balcony. He stares at the stars, and the Frostback mountains, and thinks.  
His family is dead. His clan, his friends, all gone. He has nowhere to go if the Inquisition closes down. Dorian won’t accept him in Tevinter. Bull won’t want someone who can barely use their left hand in his mercenary group, and he’d never be useful to the Friends of Red Jenny; his face is too famous. He has… no one.  
He’ll die alone in the forest, and no one will find his body.  
He wonders if Dorian would know, somehow, that he’s dead. Sense it, through the fade, or something, or if he’d just keep waiting for a response.

He wonders if Dorian is dead right now, and he doesn’t even know it.

No, he shouldn’t be so morbid. This isn’t how you’re meant to spend your last days alive; you’re meant to be happy, enjoying your time while it lasts. He can’t help feeling empty, though. Like pieces are missing.  
He feels so alone. He shouldn’t, though; Bull’s given up so many jobs to stay with him, and he’s keeping the Chargers here too. Thinking about it, Bull’s done so much for him, he can’t throw that in his face because he misses his boyfriend. Creators, he’s a bad friend.

Lavellan tries to be happier on the ride to Halamshiral. It feels longer than when they went to save Celene, but he far prefers being in his armour to being in the formal wear. He rides alongside Krem and the other Chargers, and spends the entire ride making jokes with them. It helps, taking his mind off of… everything. 

He’s helping some soldier’s set up a tent when he gets picked up from behind. Arms encircle him entirely, pulling him close to his assailant, and entirely on instinct he slams his head back into their face. They drop their grip to hold their nose, and he spins, ready to fight.  
Blackwall stares at him with a chuckle, rubbing his (thankfully not broken) nose.  
“You haven’t changed at all, have you?”  
He slams into Blackwall’s chest, wrapping his arms around him. It almost feels surreal - he hadn’t expected to ever see any of his companions again, and here’s Blackwall, right here, in front of him. He’s an official Grey Warden, and he came to Council meeting.  
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have darkspawn to be hunting?”  
His joking tone feels natural at this point, even as he subtly tightens the belt wrapped around his wrist, cutting off blood flow to his hand.  
“How could I miss this?”  
It’s a good enough explanation.

It turns out Blackwall isn’t the only one. They round a corner together, Blackwall telling him all about what he’s been doing with the Wardens (even though he knows that’s meant to be top secret, but Blackwall just winks at him), and a shout of “Kid!” makes his head snap to the left, before he drops down to pull Varric into a hug.  
Cassandra comes next, much more formal, a slow walk towards him with a genuine smile on her face. He holds out his hand to shake hers, and she pulls him into her embrace.  
It’s unbelievable, truly, that Varric and Cassandra would leave Kirkwall and the Seekers to come to a Council, for an organisation they’re not truly part of anymore. When he tells them that, Varric laughs and says he couldn’t leave him to face Leliana alone, and Cassandra calls him a fool for thinking they’d let this happen without their presence.  
Then comes Vivienne, graceful as ever, coming down the stairs and saying he ‘simply must get a haircut, darling’. She’s always so held together, so poised, it’s comforting in a way the others can’t accomplish.  
He’s missed them so much. 

There’s a day before the council begins in full, where things are set up, and he spends the day helping Krem lug a giant dragon skull into Bull’s tent for his birthday. Vivienne demands he come to the spa with her, but halfway through Sera arrives, sneaking him off to go make Cullen’s bed slightly uneven, and to go throw pies at passing Orlesians.  
It feels so good, so familiar, to have them all back. They’re all exactly the same, as if a year hasn’t passed. Cullen still loses at Wicked Grace, Blackwall and Sera are still inseparable, and Varric and Cassandra still argue over the smallest thing. 

He’s turning into his tent for the night when he finds Dorian. He’s standing with his back to the entrance, fiddling with his amulet and swaying a bit, clearly nervous. Once he hears the tent door flap, he turns, and they both freeze.  
Dorian’s here. In Orlais, in his tent. He’s right there and he looks so nervous, as if Lavellan’s just going to kick him out, and reject him.  
It reminds him of their first morning after, and how vulnerable Dorian had looked, and suddenly, they’re kissing. His right hand holds Dorian’s face to his, and they both relax into it, Dorian pulling him closed, the kiss remaining smooth and slow.  
The kiss breaks, but their faces stay close, foreheads touching. Lavellan opens his eyes first, taking in the fact that Dorian, his Dorian, is actually here.  
“Creators, I’ve missed you.”  
Dorian laughs, both his hands holding Lavellan’s face, thumbs slowly tracing his vallaslin, like how he used to in the early mornings in Skyhold.  
“I missed you too, amatus.”

They don’t have sex. They just lie there, together, wrapped up in each other. Lavellan has his head on Dorian’s chest, curled around him, listening to his breathing. He’d never admit it, he knows, but Dorian snores. Lightly, but still snoring. It’s soothing, to hear something more than the mark’s magic. Dorian is truly his perfect distraction.  
It’s the first night in a long time that Lavellan sleeps til sunrise.  
When he wakes up, Dorian’s gone, probably to go- Oh, he never asked Dorian why he was here. He’s sure that if Dorian was just here for him, he would have just came to Skyhold, or at least told him in a letter.  
He lays there, watching his mark flash with magic before the light fades, before flashing again. It repeats over and over, like a heartbeat. He wonders, if he were to stab it, what would happen? Would it hurt more? Less? Would the blood stop the mark’s glow? He won’t, he can’t, but he thinks about it. He thinks about a lot of things now.  
What if he dies, here? What if he spent all this time without Dorian so he wouldn’t find his corpse, for nothing? He just dies, here, now, and Dorian has to watch it?

The thought makes him push himself to a sitting position, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his marked hand. He drags himself to his feet, and autonomously gets ready, pulling his clothes on, and ruffling his hair to make sure it looks right. Staring into the mirror at the constant dark circles under his eyes, his hollow eyes, and his constantly messy hair, there’s no way he can look what Josephine would deem “acceptable” by the time the council is called.  
Sighing, he heads out anyway; the world won’t wait for him. It never has. 

The first thing he sees is Varric, Cole, Sera, and Dorian standing around, drinking. Varric’s yelling a speech to Dorian, it seems, and he stands looking sheepishly at his cup. Walking over, Dorian looks up, eyes widening as they settle on Lavellan.  
“-but, we’ll miss you. If it counts.”  
Miss him? He just got back? Why… Oh. Oh.  
It must be written all over his face, because he hears (he can’t take his eyes off Dorian, not for a second) Sera, Varric, and Cole clear off, and then they’re alone. They stare at each other, before Dorian turns, and walks off. He follows, of course, he’d follow Dorian anywhere if he could.  
He’s leaving. He’s leaving as soon as the Council ends. Forever.  
It’s so bittersweet. He finally gets him back, finally, and he’s planning on leaving not 12 hours later. Lavellan can’t blame him, not really, considering how Dorian’s father’s death is the reason for this, but it still hurts. Creators, it hurts. It hurts more than all his scars combined, more than when a dragon burned his back during a fight, more even than the mark.  
Dorian’s still Dorian, though. Always making light of issues, so he doesn’t truly have to confront them. He makes a joke about his expression, and it’s just too much.  
“Do you think this is funny?”  
His own voice sounds so foreign, so hoarse. It’s so sad, hollow, like the rest of him. This might be it, he thinks, this might be the last straw. Looking into Dorian’s eyes, he knows it hurts him too.  
“I am sorry, for what it’s worth.”  
Creators, he feels lightheaded. Desperate, he offers to go with him, stay in Tevinter, but Dorian just looks at him with those same, sad eyes, and tells him, “not this time, amatus.”. He braces himself, for the break up. For the, “It’s too far,” or the “I can’t wait that long,”, for something to end it.  
Instead, Dorian puts a small, blue crystal in his hand.

It’s enough. They can do this.  
The crystal lets them talk, no matter how far apart they are. It transmits voices, so he’ll always be able to talk to Dorian. No more worrying about letters, no more sitting in the dark.  
It’s almost as good as being able to go to Tevinter with him. He wonders if he’ll live long enough for the crystal to be of actual use. 

When Dorian went back to chatting to Varric, he turned, seemingly staring at the fountain. In truth, he looked down, to his mark. He’d heard a searing, like how metal fizzed on a blacksmith’s anvil after being dipped in the ice water. He’d attempted to muffle it, pressing it into his thigh, the heat radiating. Looking now, no mark had been left, thank creators, but his glove…  
The mark had burned through it, clean. Usually, the light would shine through any clothing, any fabric, the magic too strong. But this, this is new. The edges of the glove that used to cover his palm are charred, like he got too close to a mage, but it’s so concentrated that it’s completely deteriorated to ash. He pokes it, lightly, with his right hand, and pain shoots up his arm, making him choke back a gasp. 

He’s still watching it when Vivienne snaps him out of it.  
“Are you quite alright, Inquisitor?” He hates that. Hates that people still call him that. He has a name, you know. “It hasn’t escaped me that the anchor is acting up.”  
What. What. What.  
“Oh, come now, I’m not a fool. You’re remarkable unsubtle, for a rogue.”  
She says that so casually, staring at her nails, and flicking dust. As if she’s not just completely shattered his illusion of calm.  
This is it, then. If Vivienne knows, Bull definitely knows, and that means Dorian could know, too. No, if Dorian knew, they would have talked about it. Dorian’s never subtle when he thinks Lavellan is in trouble, or in danger, or hurt. If anything, he’s rather loud about it.  
“It’s fine, nothing to worry about, Vivienne,” he says, desperately trying to regain his composure. He manages to keep his voice steady, but he knows his face gives away the lie.  
“Don’t be stoic at the expense of your health,” she tuts, finally turning to look at him. She looks from his face, to the mark, back to his face again. She offers her hand, and he instinctively puts the anchor there, palm up, for her inspection. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”  
“Every time it flares, I feel the pain from my fingers to my jawbone.” he doesn’t mention how it feels when it doesn’t. She tuts, tracing the edge of his palm with her index finger, not willing to touch it. She drops her hand, looking back up at him.  
“When this is over, I’ll find you something to ease that pain.”  
Creators, he wishes he could believe that. That there’s just something, somewhere, in someone’s back room, that can just make it all stop. He tries his best to smile, to show that he’s fine, but he knows it’s futile.  
“Can you.. not tell Dorian?”  
His voice drops to a whisper, so she can hardly hear it, but he knows she does by the way she sharp way she looks at him.  
“I won’t defy your wishes, Inquisitor. Just know I strongly disapprove.”  
She turns on her heel and stalks off, and Lavellan feels like he just swallowed a stone.

It’s all political drivel until they find the Qunari. Then, it’s political drivel with the fate of Thedas itself on the line. One moment he’s chatting to Leliana, and trying to figure out what to do about the fate of the Inquisition, and the next he’s gallivanting through Eluvians, and fighting Qunari soldiers. Bull gets increasingly frustrated by his lack of knowledge, but he can’t be blamed; he left the Qunari months ago. Dorian and Vivienne talk about magical applications so much, it all just turns to a muted noise to his ears.  
It’s just like before; adventuring with his friends, with massive stakes riding on their success. He can almost relax back into the groove of it - chatting, fighting, exploring abandoned ruins. 

The anchor sparks and pulses. Permanently.  
He waits, digging his nails deep into his palm to distract, but it doesn’t stop. It glows, and glows, and the green never goes away. They pass through Elvhen ruins, he gets his entire worldview shattered, Solas is Fen’harel, and all he can think about is the glow. It feels like a constant headache, pushing in on his skull so hard it feels like it’s about to implode.  
Sera laughs, when they find out about the evanuris. She laughs, mocks the Dalish, and he snaps at her so hard she doesn’t react. She just stares at him, stunned. He turns, shoulders tense, and continues on through the ruins.  
It flares more, light intensifying in ways he didn’t know possible. Dorian, ever the scholar, holds his hand, palm up, theorising about the correlation between Elvhen magic and the mark.  
They don’t talk about it. 

The end starts in front of Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. They’re arguing, more politics, and his head burns so hot he feels like he’s on fire. The burst is so sudden he drops to his knees and yells out, while his advisors are mid-argument.  
The anchor sparks, massive light coming from the palm of his hand, cracks appearing on the very surface of reality itself. They crackle, like lightning, originating from his hand, spreading as far as his forearm. It burns so hot, like his hand is doused directly in dragonflame, and he can’t bring himself to look at it, his eyes shut tight. He holds his anchored arm with his free hand at the elbow, restraining it from thrusting out and letting the cracks anywhere near them.  
They just stare at him, when the cracks die down a bit. It takes a minute, his breathing still heavy, but when he looks up he can see concern over all of their faces.  
He can’t hide this.  
“It’s been getting worse. I don’t know why. I don’t know how to stop it.” He keeps his voice level by not meeting their eyes, instead staring at a tile on the floor with intense concentration.  
It’s hard, so hard, but he manages to push himself up, to his feet, meeting Leliana’s eyes. He tells her he’s fine, he can handle this, this one last, vital mission. She nods, understanding, and thanks him. He leaves the tent as soon as the politics is sorted. 

It’s just getting worse. Visually, as well as everything that comes with it. A trail of green ash follows every movement of his hand, like the anchor is devouring him whole, turning every last part of him into ash. 

Dorian corners him, on the walk to face Viddasala. Leliana, concerned about him as always, has told him about… about everything. Dorian puts both his hands on his cheeks, making sure their eyes meet, and he can practically feel Dorian’s pain. His regret, his guilt, his fear. All of it.  
“Why didn’t you say something? I could have… I don’t know. Something!”  
He wishes, deeply, he could explain it. Explain it all, everything, explain it all away, and just fall into Dorian’s arms. It’s not that simple, though, and they don’t have the time. There’s nothing, really, that Dorian could have done, and he would have just spent a year with Lavellan, instead of working to complete his dream. It was better this way, suffering alone.  
He knows Dorian doesn’t understand though. How can he? He knows he wouldn’t, if their roles were reversed. 

He’s thought about this a lot, about what he’d like to be his last words. They come easier than he would have expected.  
“Whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Ar lath ma, vhenan.”  
Dorian pulls him into an embrace at that, and he can feel his tears on his shoulder.  
“I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard.”  
Turning away, he can’t bring himself say anything. He knows, now, that nothing he says will be enough to fix this. Not to Dorian.  
They march to the end in silence.

It gets worse, and worse, until he’s screaming out with every pulse. The air cracks, and the sparks drift out further, longer, and the air smells of fire and ash. He wonders, gasping on the floor, clenching his arm so hard he’s cutting off the flow of his blood, how long he can stand this pain, until it kills him? How long until his heart just gives out?  
Just a little longer.

It all seems like child’s play after it explodes. The entire area around him explodes with the green sparks, knocking everything back. Dorian, his hand reaching out to Lavellan, comforting, is sent flying backwards, slamming hard into Cassandra. Varric, nearby, barely makes it out, the force of the blast still stunning him off balance.  
In the centre of the explosion, he sobs.

He notices, on the way up the hill, on the way to Solas, the dagger. It’s dark, easily unnoticed, small. The hilt sticks out of his stomach, below his ribs, on the left. Seeing it, actually seeing it, makes his head spin more, but he can’t truly feel it. It’s nothing to the glow.  
Stumbling through the eluvian, he hears Dorian yell for him. By the time he turns to look, the Eluvian is shut off, and he whimpers a bit at the thought of not being able to truly say goodbye.  
It can’t be for nothing though.

He drags himself, one hand aglow, and the other seeped in his own blood, up the hill, to meet Fen’harel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive I can't proofread for shit.
> 
> I feel like I'm kind of bad at keeping focus, so I hope you don't mind that it's a bit all-over the place.


	3. After

They cut off his hand.

He’s screaming, clawing, begging, desperate to get out. He needs it - I need it, please, please, no - he’ll take the pain, anything but that.   
Bull holds him down, and Cassandra cuts it off. Dorian has his forehead pressed against his, murmuring words of comfort in Common, Tevene, and even Elvhen. He can’t hear it though, not over his own screams and whimpers.  
He hears the chop and his arm explodes, and the shriek he releases makes everyone bar Bull cringe a little. Dorian’s running his fingers through his hair, tracing his vallaslin, anything to give a little bit of physical comfort. He hushes him, mumbling ‘I know’’s at him as he strokes his face.   
His arm, fenedhis, his arm. The emptiness almost feels worse than the pain. He can feel the blood on what he has left of an arm, even as the medic bandages up the wound, which makes him whimper.   
He’s useless now. He can’t fight, he can’t climb, he can’t…. Fenedhis, there’s so much he can’t do. It might not even work. What if it’s too late, if the mark has already corrupted his bloodstream? What if he just dies of blood loss here and now? 

Mythal’enaste. 

He still feels the pain, sometimes. Two weeks after he lost his arm, and he still feels it. Still instinctively reaching to pick things up with a hand that’s not there, still feeling like he’s moving it, still feeling the mark’s burn. His torso hurts, too. The knife had been matted with his blood, both dried and wet, and one of his fuzzy memories from after Solas is Leliana thanking the Maker that it hadn’t been poisoned.  
Dorian stays with him. He was meant to have left a week ago, but he refused to leave him until he deemed him well enough.

The Inquisition is gone. Deformed, officially. He couldn’t trust them, any of them, too infiltrated with spies, whether they be Qunari, or Elven. It stings, sometimes more than the physical pain, that he couldn’t convince Solas to back down. That nothing they did together, nothing he’d shown Solas of this world convinced him that they were worth the loss of the past.   
It doesn’t matter, not for now. He needs… he deserves a week or two of rest. 

Dorian made him promise, no more secrets. No more lies. It’s instinctive, though, the need to cover up, make sure he won’t worry, and it’s hard telling him everything. It’s also easy, like everything with Dorian is. As long as he doesn’t think about it too much, he could tell this man anything. Sing him symphonies about his eyes, about his voice, how he looks when he smiles.  
He does his best. He tells him about how he doesn’t want to get up, because every time he leans over to push himself up, he falls without his left arm to hold him up. He tells him how it hurts to turn, how he just wants to lie down forever. He tells him about how he’s the only thing that feels real anymore, how it’s all just a blur, how pathetic he feels.

And Dorian does his best. He tries so much, Lavellan can’t help but adore him. When he reaches to use his arm, Dorian helps him. When he doesn’t move, he lies there with him. When he feels pathetic, Dorian makes him feel like more.  
Everyone helps, in their own little ways, but it actually hurts him to think about what Dorian is sacrificing to offer him a week or two of comfort. He doesn’t have to, what with all of Tevinter eagerly awaiting his presence, but he does anyway. 

They all visit him, in bed, during the second week, when he’s more responsive. Sera comes and tells him that she’d decided he just has to join the Friends of Red Jenny, and before he can really oppose that, she’s launched into telling him stories about all the fun they can have together. Bull comes with an offer, telling him there’s always room in the Chargers for him. Vivienne tells him he’s always welcome at one of her Circles, should he not find anywhere else to go. She presumes he wouldn’t really want to be in a tower of mages, and she’s correct. He’s done feeling out of place.

Varric, after already giving him an estate - an actual, physical home, to stay in - tells him about some surprise that Bianca is working on for him. He won’t give details, but he has a glint in his eye that suggests it’s something not everyone will approve of. Lavellan argues, says he’s already done too much for him, that he has Kirkwall to worry about, and Varric, ever the smooth talker, merely says that Bianca’s doing it, not him. 

It’s strange, being Dalish, to actually have a home. A physical, real home. Somewhere that won’t move. A constant. He can’t think about it for too long, or he starts getting giddy, and imagining a future that can’t happen - living with Dorian in a house, a real house. He won’t get his hopes up, not when they’ll only get crushed. 

It’s strange, to be offered a place to belong by everyone except the one he wants to offer. Dorian’s so adamant he can’t come to Tevinter with him, not even if he stays hidden. It’s too dangerous, over and over, as if he hasn’t been in danger this entire time. What difference is there between Venatori mages and Tevinter magisters, other than masks?

He’s walking to the kitchens, one night, while Dorian is passed out in their shared bed, hungry. It’s the first time he’s really been up and about, and his eyes still sting a little from crying. He’d fallen asleep sobbing, wrapped up in Dorian. He’s fine, better now. Dorian always makes him better. 

Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra are talking in the hall. He stops, crouching around the wall. They’re talking about him. They have to be. 

“-don’t you think?”   
“We have to be there for him, then.”  
“Of course we will be, but how? If he didn’t feel comfortable telling us about the anchor in the first place, how can we possibly comfort him now?”   
“In any way we can. It does not matter if he does not ask for help, or if he keeps things from us. It is our duty to look after him, as he has for us, in our times of need.”  
“What of our own business? I am busy with Chantry matters, and you have to worry about the Seekers. We can hardly take him with us. I doubt he would want to, in the first place.”  
“He’s welcome with me, my family in Antiva-”  
“Which he won’t accept. I believe Sera offered him an invitation to her… organization.”  
“Bull, too.”  
“And if he accepts neither? We cannot allow him to stew in an abandoned castle in the Frostbacks until Dorian comes back?”  
“Then we find somewhere else for him. We will find somewhere for him to be safe.”

He’s crying, now, covering his mouth with his hand, biting down on his finger to stop from crying out. He’d thought they, of all people, the people who started the Inquisition, would think him weak, pathetic, considering how they looked at him as Inquisitor. They care, they care, they care. The words repeat through his head, and he sneaks back to his own bed, back to Dorian, feeling more free than he has in years. 

He tries to be better for them, after that. Tries to cooperate, and help them. He knows how hard they’re trying to accomodate for him, how hard they’re trying to keep to what he wants while they comfort him. He gets up more, goes out to meet them. Roof time with Sera, training with Cassandra, discussing politics with Vivienne. It’s nice, like before, when Corypheus was just recently defeated, and the threat of the Dread Wolf wasn’t looming overhead.

Blackwall is the first to leave, required in the Deep Roads, leaving him with a hand-carved Inquisition sigil. “To remember all of this”, he remarks. “As if I could ever forget all of this,” he smiles back, twisting it in his hands. He carves a hole into the top, where the blade’s pommel is, and wears it like a necklace. He doesn’t take it off.

Dorian leaves a week after he gets out of bed. He pretends he doesn’t hear Dorian making Sera, Varric, and Bull promise to look after him. He doesn’t need watched, like a petulant child. It’s better to pretend he didn’t hear it, than to cause an argument in the place of their farewell.   
It’s a hard farewell. He goes in, determined not to cry, but it ends with them both locked in an embrace, and he feels Dorian’s tears on his shoulder. He bites his lip, hard, to stop himself crying out, his eyes tightly shut. 

They let go, and he looks at Dorian hard. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to try and lighten the mood, but all that comes out is a half-sob, “Vhenan,”. The Iron Bull, Ben-Hassrath, ever his savior, crossing about five feet in a split second, pulls them both up into him, hugging them tightly to his chest. This means, unfortunately, that both of them are pulled off the ground, but it makes him laugh. He grips onto Bull’s arm, like he’s swinging on a tree branch, and looks over to Sera and Varric, to see Cole, Cassandra, and Vivienne have joined them. 

They’re all smiling, in their own ways. Sera with her nose wrinkled, like she’s disgusted with her own happiness. Vivienne with that quiet half-smile, and Varric with his hard grin. Cassandra has a nice smile, subtle, a nice change from her normally stern face. Cole’s is a ghost of a smile, much more common now he’s more human. 

It’ll be hard, without Dorian. Nothing will change that. But it’s easier, he thinks, as long as he has friends like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I finally got the hang of the AO3 format! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this. It's weird that my first fanfic is actually finished. 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know if anyone cares about this game anymore but I angst about Trespasser like 5 times a week.
> 
> Please validate me.  
> Also I can't spell please tell me if I fucked it up.  
> My formatting kind of got lost on the conversion from google docs to AO3 so :( sorry if it's hard to read... I'll work on that. More enters.  
> This is my first fic so please give me feedback... i want to be Good.


End file.
